let me see your eyes
by k-nesk
Summary: Sherlock has always been good at multitasking- better than most- but it's a bit much for his attention to be divided between a string of murders caused by Moriarty and a serial killer who draws inspiration from children's movies. T for potential violence.


It was a quiet Tuesday morning, and Sherlock was sitting in his usual armchair with a newspaper abandoned on the floor next to him. He wore the silk blue dressing gown that he always wore in the mornings, and he sipped a cup of tea that John had made. John was across from him in his own armchair with his own newspaper and his own cup of tea. Neither spoke. Sherlock tapped a finger on his chair. He pulled his phone out abruptly, having decided it was time to check in with Lestrade. Sherlock knew the detective inspector had a case, and he knew the DI had no idea where to go with it. His text was simple, clever, and indirect- exactly what Lestrade needed to be convinced he was out of his wits on this one. _Doing well on your own?,_ Sherlock sent, with his usual signature flanking the end. He smirked at his own cleverness. The message would bury itself into Lestrade's skin and fester until he just _had_ to ask for help- Sherlock knew. A response was received almost immediately.

"Lestrade will be over shortly," Sherlock announced. John looked up from his newspaper. His eyes were bright, and it was obvious he hoped this to be what it seemed. Sherlock pressed his fingertips together and smiled lightly at the doctor. "I do believe we have a case."

John's smile was crooked and open. "An actual case?" he asked in disbelief. "But it's been weeks!"

"Yes," Sherlock murmured. "We're long overdue." He tapped his fingers together rhythmically and hummed to himself for a moment before asking, "Would you get our coats ready? I expect we'll be leaving soon."

John rolled his eyes, but the gesture was good natured. He fetched the coat without arguing, and threw the massive and flowing hulk of black wool onto the couch. Lestrade came up soon after and though he looked like his normal self at first glance, Sherlock's all-seeing eyes immediately picked up on his mussed hair and anxiously clenched fists.

"This case troubles you, I see," Sherlock noted.

Lestrade didn't comment; he was used to Sherlock's little parlor tricks. "It's a...weird one," he began delicately. "You've already heard about it, no doubt."

"Refresh me."

Lestrade sighed, but didn't object. "It's some kind of twisted homicide. The victim's throat was slit, but there's no blood anywhere. It's like the body was..._washed_."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "There's absolutely _no blood_? Not on the clothes, or the floor?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Not even a speck as far as I can see. We didn't move the body yet- I figured you'd throw a fit if we did- but it doesn't look like we'll find anything if we do."

Sherlock hummed in approval. "Interesting," he mused.

Lestrade's eyes twinkled. "You'll help?" he asked, his tone bright with hope.

Sherlock stood and straightened his dressing gown. "Yes, of course," he dismissed, waving a hand. "I'll be behind you in a cab as per usual."

Lestrade grinned and gave his thanks before bounding back down the stairs and driving off. Sherlock flashed a rare grin at John. He slipped into his bedroom for a couple of short minutes and emerged looking clean and ready to go with brushed hair, neat clothes, and impatient enthusiasm showing in his eyes. He shrugged on his coat and asked John if he was coming while tugging on his gloves. His answer was, as Sherlock already knew, _yes of course_, so a cab was hailed and they clamored in. Though the drive was actually rather short, it dragged on in its silent monotony. Sherlock tipped his head back and closed his eyes, and John almost thought he was sleeping, but that was just wishful thinking. It was just short of miraculous for Sherlock to actually _sleep._

"Isn't it brilliant, John?" Sherlock asked suddenly. His voice was low and his eyes were barely open.

John snapped his head over and looked at Sherlock, shocked by the noise. "Uh, yes, I suppose," he stammered. "These murders are just grand," he added sarcastically.

Sherlock frowned. "You're no fun."

Sgt Donovan greeted the pair with her usual bought of insults, but Sherlock brushed her off with a few completely unprecedented deductions. John tried not to giggle while she sputtered in embarrassment. They crossed paths with Lestrade while walking into the building where the crime had evidently occurred, and he began lecturing them on the need to wear gloves while they made their way to the basement. John was giving the detective inspector half of his attention, but it was lost completely when the body came into view. The scene looked staged and disturbingly clean. The victim, an average looking man with brown hair and freshly washed skin, was laid in the middle of the empty basement with his hands over his eyes. There was an ugly gash on his throat, but there was no blood. Sherlock emitted an irritated groan.

"Boring," he announced. "The victim is Owen Clark, he witnessed-"

"The rape and murder of Sarah Kennedy, I know," Lestrade interrupted. "That's the weird thing. James Leonard has alibi- _and_ it checks out. I've no idea who else would want the kid dead."

Sherlock frowned. "Interesting," he breathed. He took a step closer to the victim and swept his eyes up and down the body, taking in its position and whatever other vital details could be seen from that distance. He stood there for a moment, not a word leaving his lips, before whipping out his little magnifying glass and crouching closer. Among a few other things, he inspected the wound, rubbed a lock of hair in between his fingers, looked particularly closely at the button on the left shirt sleeve, and ran his thumb along the bottom of the victim's right shoe. He squinted at certain things, regarded the victim's hands, donned a small, all-knowing smirk and then stepped back. He pocketed the magnifying glass and looked to John.

"If I could please have your medical opinion," Sherlock requested. He had an odd way of turning statements into questions without even the correct inflection. Nonetheless, John gave a nod and tottered over to the body. Before he could do anything, Sherlock told him, "Feel free to move it about however you wish. I've already noted anything significant in the position." John nodded and returned to the body. He looked at the wound and found it rather conclusive, but still took the time to examine the eyes, fingernails, and mouth.

"He definitely bled out," John decided. "There may have been a struggle, but it's hard to tell. The body is extraordinarily clean and any blood that may have been under the fingernails seems to be washed, or even scraped away."

Sherlock smiled. "Good," he praised curtly. John gave a bit of a smile.

Lestrade turned to Sherlock. "So, have you got anything?"

"Nothing that you don't already know, but I'll humour you anyway. The victim is twenty-nine and has a girlfriend whom he beats on occasion. He was re-"

"He beats her?" Lestrade repeated, taken aback. Sherlock regarded him with a cool eye.

"Yes, he beats her. His knuckles were obviously bruised a few days prior to this incident; the scarring underneath suggests regular use, and the pattern suggest the victim has a small, if not petite frame. May I continue?"

Lestrade nodded hesitantly. Sherlock frowned at him, but continued all the same.

"He's right handed, but our killer is a lefty. He was redressed by our killer in clothes other than his own, and put here like this after his death. This isn't our killer's first murder, but it _is_ the first one he's executed quite like this. He's obviously trying to bring our attention to what Owen Clark saw by using this arrangement of limbs, but what that _means_ I am not yet sure."

Lestrade looked surprised. "Should we look back into Leonard?" he asked skeptically. Sherlock jerked his head back in disgust.

"Leonard? No! This isn't him at all."

Lestrade shifted his gaze and muttered "And he _did_ have an alibi."

Sherlock huffed in frustration. "It doesn't matter if he has an _alibi,_ Leonard is messy. He likes to see the blood spurt out and mess everything up; he likes the process tolast_, _and he likes to leave his victim while they bleed out. This was quick, clean, and took a very long time to situate after the victim died. _This isn't him at all._"

"I see your point," Lestrade admitted with a nod. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he almost smiled.

A coroner had made his way to the basement while the two detectives talked, and his attempt to lift the body suddenly sputtered to a halt. "Well _that's_ certainly interesting," he muttered. He looked up to Lestrade and nodded his head to the half-lifted body. "Have you seen this?"

Lestrade trotted over to where the body lay and asked, "Seen what?" He looked down to where the coroner pointed. "Is that written in _blood?_ Sherlock, come look at this."

Sherlock waited until the coroner had cleared out with the body to look. He had, when examining the body, noticed a few hardly visible chalk markings around the head and was sure that they had been etched onto the floor to ensure the temporary concealment of whatever Lestrade was looking at. He wasn't at all surprised that there was some sort of adornment under the head, and, to an extent, had expected it. From where he was standing, he could see the harsh red paint- and yes, it was obviously _paint_, Lestrade was an imbecile for thinking otherwise- that formed three letters against the steely concrete floor. _ICU._There was no punctuation between letters, and that irked Sherlock, but he understood why it was so.

Lestrade looked to Sherlock from where he was crouched. "Any idea what it means?"

"It means he sees us," he said vacantly. "Assuming it was written by our killer, which would make statistical sense, he has proportionately large hands, and he writes, as already concluded, with his left. He's obsessed with neatness and it made him nervous to write with paint."

"Okay...," Lestrade trailed. "So, I assume when you say _he_ sees us, you mean the killer?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said, "Yes."

Lestrade nodded, mumbled something about finding Anderson, and walked off.

"I used to think he was competent," Sherlock complained to John. This earned a small chortle. "I'm afraid there isn't much else for us do to here. Would you accompany me back to 221?"

John, of course, did. The cab ride home was very similar to the one out- Sherlock was silent and peaceful with his eyes closed and his head tipped back, and John didn't dare speak for fear of interrupting an important thought process. Time ticked on and John stared at the scenery while waiting for Sherlock to speak, but he never did. They reached 221b and he exited the cab without a word. He didn't even speak when Mrs. Hudson asked, "Back already?" with a few fingers resting on her chin. John couldn't be surprised. He was used to Sherlock's antics by now, and one of them was the refusal to speak immediately after visiting a crime scene; it was Sherlock's way of processing information most efficiently and was a healthier and shorter lasting effect than his aversion to food and sleep.

John began to blog about the mess of events that had just transpired, and Sherlock laid himself on the couch. They didn't talk for a long time. John wrote about the scene he saw today, but instead of dwelling on those facts that were at least a little unpleasant to remember, he described Owen Clark. He talked about his too-pale skin and his hair, which was longer for a guy but was well-kept and still wet from when his dead body had been washed. He noted that his eyes were blue, but had a little patch of hazel near the pupil. He briefly noted the obstruction on his neck, and then continued on to speak of how badly the clothes fit. The shirt was red plaid and flannel and seemed two sizes too big; the pants were denim and equally large. He ended the entry with talk of how Sherlock wasn't speaking, but was probably just angry about something and actually already knew who the killer was. Harry commented soon after with "all in a days work, am i right?" John smiled and replied "Yeah, we do this every Tuesday." He put away his laptop shortly after and flipped on the television, but kept it as quiet as he could stand for Sherlock's sake. Ten minutes later, the consulting detective spoke.

"Phone," he said.

John sighed. "Where is it?"

"Right coat pocket."

John sighed again but hefted himself out of his armchair and dug the phone out of Sherlock's coat. He tossed it onto Sherlock's chest and returned to his chair. Sherlock didn't thank him, but John was used to that.

"We should visit Owen Clark's girlfriend."

John raised an eyebrow. "Alright," he said slowly, mulling over the idea. "Do you know where she lives?"

Sherlock let out a defeated sort of groan and looked at John, but ignored his question. "Mycroft wants to come over," he lamented.

"Oh, God forbid your brother pay us a visit," he teased. Sherlock grimaced and typed a text up to Mycroft.

_Can't. On a case._

_SH_

It took less than a minute for Sherlock's phone to start buzzing. He answered, but didn't care to give Mycroft a proper greeting.

"I'm busy," he spat.

"Sherlock, don't be silly. You should know by now that it was your little friend, Moriarty."

"Moriarty was _behind it_ but he isn't the _murderer_."

"Details, details."

Sherlock scowled. "What do you want?"

"Sherlock, please do have some manners."

"No."

Sherlock could hear Mycroft let out an impatient breath through his receiver. "I need a bit of help, and I have an...interesting case for you on top of that. Consider it a peace offering."

"Mummy would be proud."

His frown was almost visible through his tone of voice, alone. "Sherlock, try to be civil. There's no reason to bring her into this."

"I'm _busy._"

"So am I."

Mycroft hung up the phone and Sherlock knew that the argument was lost. He turned to John and bitterly repeated, "Mycroft wants to come over."


End file.
